Whispers of a Demon
by Cat in Disguise
Summary: The latest target, Antonio Maffei, one of the known conspirators protecting Jacopo de Pazzi, has been found. Now he must be eliminated. But, he spits venomous words. Warnings of the evil demon. Are his words just poison, or do they resonate with a hidden truth?


Hey everybody, sorry for the long absence, I've had a lot of work to do and not a lot of internet access. So, here is your apology!

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><p>"People of the city! You have sinned by being swayed by poisonous words! And now, your sins have called forth a demon to this place! The more you deny your sins, the more it feeds and grows even stronger!" The man atop the tower paused to draw breath. From within his robes he removed a small prayer book hung around his neck by a string of translucent beads.<p>

"Join me in prayer, now, so you may attempt to cleanse your bodies of their unholiness!"

Ezio whistled under his breath at the display from his perch on a lower tower. The _mercenario _had not exaggerated in the least. Whatever remained of his target's mind no longer consisted of any type of logic or reasoning. The man no longer dictated his own actions, so Ezio felt that silencing him would be a kindness, at the very least. No one could recover from this state of mind once it completely set in. Those who met the same tragic fate as Maffei became condemned to spend the rest of their lives locked away underneath the city to rot.

So yes, it would be better this way. Better than sentencing him to an agonizing existence trapped within his own mind.

Rolling his shoulders to loosen them a bit before the difficult ascent, he crept off the roof onto a makeshift rope path. He followed it until the edge of the madman's tower stood mere feet away. Talented amber like eyes scanned the stone for any potential handholds, which revealed themselves in the form of tiny windows, missing chunks of the stone, and exposed parts of the building's inner structure.

"_Bene, _now I can get to him much easier."

Breathing in deeply, he leapt forward onto one of the rungs, and then stretched upward to grab at a space in the a while, he scaled the building just like that: hand over hand, fingers seeking the next handhold seconds after he released the previous one. Throughout the entire ordeal, Ezio remained in a trancelike state, gaze focused straight ahead, and yet the usually bright orbs were glazed, as if captivated by some unseen force.

Finally, his hand found the edge of the wooden platform where two archers prowled, defending their employer, or at least trying to, from any potential threats. Mocha eyes blinked several times, clearing of the trancelike haze, a blaze of longing settling in its place; A longing that arose from a source unknown to even him.

It manifested as a low keening from deep within his core, calling out for the archers' blood to paint the tower crimson, to flow down the structure until it dripped red. And then when it dried, more blood would join it to keep it dark and wet for a long time. He would repeat the ritual until the need for another coat was no more, until the structure itself looked mortally wounded, dyed scarlet with the essence . . .

Ezio went rigid when he realized just where his train of thought had drifted. His gloved hands tightened on the ledge as he breathed steadily in and out, dizzy from the onslaught of alien impulses.

Finally, his breathing evened out, and he pulled himself onto the platform right behind one of the archers. Restraining the instincts screaming at him to carve the man into unrecognizable lumps of flesh, he unsheathed his hidden blade and plunged it into the juncture between the skull and spinal cord. The sickening crunch of bone ran along Ezio's arm all the way down his own spine, making him shiver.

He withdrew the blade, catching the guard as he tipped forward, sitting him against the wall and brushing his eyelids closed. Footsteps approached from his left, so he slid carefully in the opposite direction to wait for him to discover the body. To be honest, it surprised him that the guard hadn't heard him breathing, or even the brief struggle despite being so close.

He clambered up the final part of the tower to where the raving man stood addressing the 'sinful' people. Shifting upwards, he could make out the swish of the dark robes as the target moved back and forth. For a split second, he glanced around the wall to the body. Sure enough, the other archer had discovered his companion, and was searching the surrounding towers, obviously in a panic.

A smirk formed on Ezio's lips, and he returned his attention to his target. Maffei finally paused at the far edge of the raised area to spread his arms with a grand sweeping motion. Seeing his chance, he clambered up and practically glided up behind the deranged Templar. The man turned at the last possible moment. He opened his mouth to scream for help, but only a wet gurgling came out. Ezio's dagger was buried deep within his chest.

Just like so many of the archers Antonio Maffei crumpled to the ground, supported by Ezio.

"_Via con te, diavolo_ . . ."

The man managed to snap these words at him, but in the next few seconds, he broke into a coughing fit. For these few moments, Ezio sat, rigid, as the words repeated over and over again.

_Diavolo . . . _

Demon . . .

Is that what people saw when they looked at him, what they feared stalked the streets of _Italia_? Maybe that was the reason, the reason for the strange spell that had come over him mere minutes ago. The primal desire to use his kills as artwork, the tower as the canvas. To see the internal organs hang from the balconies of his enemies fortress. Was that what he had become? A monster?

The Templar shuddered violently, which brought Ezio out of his stupor to address him.

"Have some respect for death, my friend."

"I'll show you respect-" The hidden blade buried itself into his throat just as he finished.

"No," Ezio whispered as he slid the man's eyes closed one final time. "I will."

He lowered his enemy to the ground, muttering a final prayer.

"_Ora sei libero dalla paura. Requiescat in Pace_."

Knowing the remaining guard would find out what had transpired sooner or later, he crept onto an outstanding plank of wood. He inhaled slowly, deeply, and leapt.

The haystack he landed in rustled slightly but stayed relatively still. Ever cautious, he stayed in the stack for a few more moments to make absolutely certain no one was pursuing him. When several minutes had passed with no sounds of footsteps or shouting, he slid from the stack and began his trek to the stables. There were still two more men he had to hunt down for information on Jacopo de Pazzi. No need to keep the men waiting longer than they should.

Luckily, the stables were fairly close to him, and he didn't have far to go for the next target sought out by the _mercenari._

He untied a deep chestnut stallion from the post and slung his leg over its back and brought the steed to a canter. At this speed, he could have some time to himself, to think.

The speech, the prayer of Maffei, both had warned of a demon that the people had summoned with their sinful hearts. For each venomous word from the Medici they believed, the demon grew stronger, feeding on their naivety, making itself stronger, more powerful. That is what he was in the eyes of the Templars. The demon that feeds off of people's fear and misjudgment.

Under normal circumstances, he would be very grateful for this. The more the Templars feared him, the more vulnerable they became. But in the eyes of the citizens, if that was what they saw, then why did he protect them? If all of them were going to con den him for being a monster, why did he constantly risk his life to defend them?!

He leaned forward into the horses mane, gripping the coarse hair and allowed the tears to stream down his cheeks.

"I'm not . . . a demon . . . I'm not . . ."

The same sentence left his lips more than he would ever admit. And it wouldn't stop repeating until he believed it to be true, which was becoming less and less likely the more he dwelled on it. How else could he describe his episode near the top of the tower. The overwhelming bloodlust that had very nearly claimed his sanity along with his humanity. What else could that be attributed to?

But . . . his uncle, Claudia, mother . . . did they see him the same way? They didn't shy away from him when he was driven to kill to protect them, nor did they recoil when he returned from an assignment drenched in blood. In fact, quite the opposite most of the time. When he would return in such a state to the villa, and assured everyone he was unwounded, uncle Mario would laugh, saying, "Now, that type of thing does not work well as a dye, _nipote."_

Claudia reacted in a similar way. She would look him over a few times, then drag him by his sleeve outside the villa. She would have him stand on a grate she placed over the well and then disappear into the villa again. After several minutes, she would return with a cloth and a tub full of steaming water. She would remove his robes from the places where most of the blood had collected and begin to clean it off of him.

The entire time she did this she would be clicking her tongue and muttering under her breath.

"_Sono io quello che deve pulire in su , lo sai." _

Even his mother, so disconnected from the rest of the world, smiled a bit when he reported he wasn't injured.

Everyone in his family . . . they cared for him, accepted him for who - or what - he was. Even those outside his family, La Volpe, Paola, Leonardo. They were all his precious friends, who helped him, taught him to survive. They understood things about the world that he could not have seen alone.

His mind had been so clouded by doubt, and fear of himself, that he had been blinded to the things that made him one of them, made him _human._ He had forgotten that people cared for him.

He rubbed at his still-glimmering eyes with his sleeve. Rolling his shoulders, he straightened in the saddle and flicked the reins, continuing towards the next _mercenario._

Just before he reached the small cluster of buildings, he glanced back over his shoulder at the tower in the distance.

"_Tu eri il demone , fingendo di essere un salvatore."_

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><p>And that is the end of my angstslight horror fix of AC 2 inspired by the speech made by Antonio Maffei!

_**Bene** _- Good

_**Via con te, diavolo** - _Away with you, demon!

**_Ora sei libero dalla paura. Requiescat in Pace_**. - Be free from your fear now. Rest in peace.

**_Nipote_** - Nephew

_**Sono io quello che deve pulire in su , lo sai.** - _I'm the one who has to clean you up, you know.


End file.
